


So Near, So Far

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dream Sharing, F/M, Feels, Forced Separation, Human Experimentation, Hurt, soul marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Soulmates are rare, where the limits of bonds and behaviours of marks are still to be fully explored and explained, there are some willing to go forgo ethics and pursue their own methods of investigation. Bucky and Natasha, marked since adolescence, did nothing to get themselves noticed - and yet here they are. Wherever 'here' is for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Near, So Far

**Author's Note:**

> I was having intense BuckyNat feels but couldn't seem to write anything I wanted - until I came across an AU masterpost, which had a list of suggestions for Soulmate AUs, one of which included the idea of soulmates sharing a telepathic link/being able to see each other in their dreams. I borrowed that idea, and coupled it with the idea of intercision from His Dark Materials (though what I've written is not quite the same), and came up with... this!
> 
> Hope you enjoy, even if your heart is a little shredded at the end...

Bucky wishes he could sit here forever. Here, he knows Natasha is with him, can feel her body curled up against his front, her hair tickling his chin, her fingers moving restlessly at his side, tugging the fabric of his shirt and fiddling with a button. Feeling bold, he closes his eyes and tightens his hold, tilting his head so his cheek rests atop hers. She responds by clutching the fabric at his hip, and he sighs. “How long has it been?” he whispers. 

“I don’t know,” Natasha murmurs back. “Could be hours, could be minutes…” 

“Wish there was a way we could tell.” 

She nods. “Me too.” 

They both stay quiet for a moment. Straightening up, Bucky coaxes Natasha into looking at him, and he holds her face in his hands, soaking up as much detail as he can (he fears it’s not accurate enough, even after all this time). “At least they’re not keeping us awake.” 

Her hand comes up to cover his. “They’re just keeping us apart.” 

“Hey now,” he chides softly. “You were the one telling me this was better than nothing the other night.” 

Natasha sags a little, eyes slipping sideways as she nods. They dart across again, settling on his left bicep, and she presses her fingers to the spot where their symbol is. “Do you think it’s true that they fade?” 

He moves a hand to her waist, brushing his knuckles over her navel where the symbol is present for her. “I hope not,” he admits after swallowing hard. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

She locks eyes with him again, her other hand linking with the one at her waist. “I’ll find my way back to you,” she says, conviction in her face and tone. “Whatever it takes, I won’t let –” 

*** 

The clang of the door sliding open wakes him up, and Bucky curses the muscle men who walk in under his breath. They don’t give him a chance to escape, hitting him with some kind of drug that leaves him groggy but conscious, so he can first suffer through the humiliation of being dragged to the examination room. The same thing happened last time, but that makes it no more embarrassing once they’ve deposited him on the table and strapped him down. Arms spread and legs parted slightly, he can’t help but feel a closeness to Jesus he hasn’t felt in centuries. 

“And how are we today, Mr Barnes?” the slimy voice asks from above his head. “Well-rested, I hope?” 

Bucky could answer if he wanted, but the fact of the matter is that he hates Kragoff with every fibre of his being. All the bastard does is record his distress – encourages it even, delights in it – so the less Bucky gives him the better. Maybe. He’s not sure something worse isn’t waiting for him down the line if he keeps being uncooperative, but really, what more could they do to him at this point? 

“Let’s look at the mark,” Kragoff says, and pulls back the torn sleeve of Bucky’s shirt. He pushes a button on a tablet. “No signs of soul-mark diminishing in any way. Mark still displays a red star beneath a black hourglass, and is still positioned high on the left arm, below the shoulder, facing outwards.” Humming, he steps back, wiggling his hairy eyebrows at Bucky. “It will be interesting to see if your soul-mate’s mark is in as pristine condition, no?” Bucky just glares. 

The exam passes quickly – which is both a shame and a blessing; a blessing because he can’t stand to have Kragoff’s hands on his body, whether they’re taking his pressure, listening to his heart or poking him with needles, so the sooner it’s over the sooner he can go back to his cell and try and sleep; a shame because he knows he won’t sleep, not right away, and that before that lull is granted him he’ll have to suffer what Kragoff terms ‘withdrawal’. If there’s one thing Bucky hates more than Kragoff, it’s going through this withdrawal in full view of that ape-like nose, and knowing that somewhere Natasha is going through the same trauma. 

Whoever measured out the dosage of the drug they gave him timed it perfectly. Only a minute after he’s dumped back where he woke up, Bucky feels mobility returning to him. Pushing himself up, he manages to reach the bed, and he lies there and waits, closing his eyes and trying futilely not to think. The pull at his core begins soon enough, soon spreading up to his chest, and he fists his hands in the sheets, buries his face into his pillow, but it’s not enough – he needs her. He needs Natasha, so fucking badly, and if only this damn pain would stop and let him sleep so he could gain a chance at seeing her! 

A man comes in with food. Bucky eats it slowly, not even aware of what it is he’s putting into his mouth but knowing it’ll keep him alive that little bit longer. If he focuses hard enough, it takes away some of the discomfort in his body (in his soul). He rubs his soul-mark, which seems to help marginally, and he keeps up the circular motion until his eyes close and he loses his grasp on consciousness. 

He comes to four hours later. Natasha was not there. 

***

When Kragoff finishes monitoring him for the evening, and Bucky finally falls asleep again, this time they see each other. 

“Anything?” he asks her, pulling out of their embrace to see her properly. 

Frowning, she shakes her head. “I’m still in the van, that’s all I know,” she reports. “Perhaps a highway, judging by the speed. All I know is we’re getting further away from you.” 

Bucky swallows, tucks her under his chin as her arms go around him. “We’ll be okay,” he says, stroking her hair soothingly. “We can survive this.” 

“For how long?” Natasha whispers, and he can’t formulate an answer. 

***

Kragoff is kind enough to let him know when one week has passed. Bucky can’t quite bring himself to care – the pain is, after all, overwhelming by this point. His whole body screams for Natasha. The drug they use to make him ‘manageable’ does nothing to abate the sensation, and he’s left barely able to move in his agony while Kragoff tuts “Still no change,” when pulling back his sleeve. There are clear changes in his physiology now, and he doesn’t need a chart and a whacked-out scientist to tell him that. His heart might shatter his ribcage at any moment, every breath feels like he’s heaving in a lungful of clotted dust, he’s shaking and burning and hurting and sweating and he cannot stay still even when drugged, his writhing reduced to a twitch of the finger or a jerk of the head every few seconds; he cannot eat, cannot drink, can hardly speak save to cry her name and plead for them to let him have her, or to at least put him under so he can dream and at least have that illusion of her, flawed as he fears it is. 

That evening, once they’ve pinned him down firmly enough to administer that drug and haul him to his crucifixion table, they stick an IV in his arm. “Since you are neither eating nor drinking,” Kragoff kindly explains, “you must get your nutrients this way. He chuckles, making Bucky nauseous. “We cannot have our final results compromised by the early demise of a subject now, can we?” 

Semi-delirious or not, Bucky still hates the man with a passion. 

***

It almost feels like real kissing. It’s certainly as impassioned, he thinks, breaking away only to yank off Natasha’s tank top. Closing his eyes again is natural, but Bucky’s not worrying about whether or not his memory is a bigger part of this than he realised – not now, when Natasha’s loosened his pants enough to slide her hand down into his boxers and it feels like this, god he wishes this were real. 

It’s a miracle, he thinks afterwards, that they were both asleep long enough for that to happen. “We were fairly hurried,” Natasha points out, pressing herself more firmly against his side. 

He hums in agreement. “Taking it slow just feels –” 

“Risky, I know.” She traces her part of their symbol onto his chest, and he does the same on her arm. “Are you coping?” 

Bucky shifts onto his side, taking a moment to brush her hair behind her ear (and why, when they could have seconds left, does he waste their precious time with such a silly gesture? She wants an answer, he’d kick himself if he couldn’t give it to her before waking). “Not well,” he admits. “I thought one week was bad but two is…” He shudders. Just thinking of ‘withdrawal’ makes him feel sick. “You?” 

“It’s unbearable.” 

Wishing he could do more, Bucky leans over to kiss her, reminding himself over and over again that they’re lucky to have this, second-best as it may be. He kisses her for as long as he dares, moving back with reluctance and stroking her cheek with his thumb. “You’re strong,” he assures her. “You can endure this.” 

“We both can.” Natasha places her fingertips against his heart, pressing down to feel the beat. “I landed today.” 

A long flight, then. Bucky nods. “Any idea where?” 

“Somewhere far,” is all she can tell him. “Nobody spoke to me. I was taken outside, so I assume it was a private plane. Possibly Karpov’s. It was hot, very humid, and I was walking on tarmac.” She sighs, frustration evident in the crease between her eyebrows. “I know that’s pathetically little to go on, but it was all I could –” 

“That’s not pathetic,” Bucky says. He’s about to say “It’s a start” when he wakes up in his cell. 

***

“Well now,” Kragoff says on the morning of the fourth week. “This is a new development!” 

Bucky could have told him that were he not drugged (and willing to cooperate). Natasha confessed in their soul-dream two (three?) days ago that she’d started to feel different, and upon waking he knew what she meant: the withdrawal symptoms were subsiding. They’d both assumed that was a good thing. 

“Soul-mark appears to be ‘smudging’ at the edges,” Kragoff says into his tablet, scurrying away with glee and returning with a cotton-bud. He swabs at Bucky’s soul-mark, peering at the tip. “Nothing physical comes away, however. This effect appears to be natural. Will monitor closely over time.” 

Straining against the sedative in his veins, Bucky tries desperately to see what he means. It’s not until he’s put back in his cell that he understands, though: the lines of his soul-mark do indeed look smudged, like someone had tried to wipe it off, the black of Natasha’s part beginning to merge with the red of his star. It turns his stomach, and he waits for sleep with a constant sense of anxiety at what, exactly, it means. 

***

“I think he’s our only hope.” 

Bucky frowns at Natasha’s soul-mark. It’s inverse to his, a red hourglass on a black star, and like his it’s still crisp and clear in the soul-dream but nearly ruined in the real world. To imagine the red of her symbol bleeding onto the black of his on her stomach – 

“James!” 

He blinks. “What?” 

“I said I got the tracker out.” Her eyes are bright, features all lit up with hope, and he stares at her as she explains, “Tony put one in my shoe in case of emergencies. Today I felt that the heel was worn down enough for me to get it out and activate it.” Natasha grins, hands coming up to cup his face. “He can find me, James,” she breathes, “and then we can find you.” 

And yes, yes that is exactly what he’s wanted to hear for over a month now – that there’s a way for them to be together again, that they won’t have to endure this separation any more than they’re being made to, that someone will finally shut Karpov and his freak show lackeys down. But… “Is it not too late?” 

Her face falls, and he feels like a traitor. “What?” 

Taking a deep breath he releases it slowly (is it just his imagination, or is that as hard in the soul-dream as it is in reality now?), and holds her gaze with as serious an apology as he can convey. “What if he takes too long, Tasha?” he whispers, stroking her forearm gently. “We’ve no idea how much time –” 

“They know we’re missing, they’ll not just sit around –” 

“You’ve no idea how far out you are –” 

“Tony has his own jet, he might –” 

“Tony is not a one-man army –” 

“He knows Rhodey –” 

“Nat –” 

“James!” 

“I’m just trying to be rea-” 

“You’re giving up!” she shouts, tears in her eyes as she steps away from him. Visibly fuming, she shakes her head, fists clenched at her sides. “You are giving up, and I cannot believe it.” 

“Natasha –” 

“I won’t.” 

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair. He’s torn between pride in her and shame at himself, because maybe she’s a tiny bit right. Blinking, he tries to clear his vision. “It’s just… so hard –” 

“I know,” she interrupts, her voice like steel, “but you have to keep going, James. You keep breathing. You stay aware, you try and eat, try and drink, and you do your damnedest to stay alive because our friends will do something. They are not the kind to sit idly by and wait for someone else to find us, and I have absolute faith that Tony will use every trick he has to get to me sooner rather than later. And when he does –” Natasha steps forward again, pulling his forehead to hers and holding him securely. “When he does, there is not a force on this earth that is going to keep me from you a moment longer. I will find you, James – do you hear me? I will find –” 

***

Maybe it’s been six weeks, maybe it’s been seven. Bucky stares at his plate, vision swimming unnervingly, and he tries to maintain his focus on the food. Sitting upright is an effort. Breathing is an effort. But for all he knows Tony has Natasha already, and they’re coming back for him from wherever she was taken. 

Kragoff no longer brings him to the examination room; Bucky’s weak enough now that the experiments can be conducted without his interference whatsoever. Why move him then? Why waste the drugs and the energy? “How do you feel today, Mr Barnes?” 

His soul-mark is nearly completely gone, just a pale impression that something was once there. “Please,” he breathes, staring heavy-lidded at the blurred scientist by his bed. “Bring her back.” Like it has done for the last week and a half, the plea falls on ignorant ears. Kragoff chuckles, then scuttles out of view. 

***

There are two possibilities for why he’s stopped dreaming. Number one: he simply falls unconscious whenever his body needs to rest now, too weak to do anything besides stare at the wall and try and conjure up Natasha’s image; number two: Natasha is… 

No. Not yet. Please, God, not yet. 

But Kragoff keeps coming, keeps asking him how he feels, keeps checking his vitals, and somewhere in Bucky’s head he knows he would know if Natasha – He would feel it. He’d know. And he would follow. (He prays he’s not the first to go.) 

***

He regains consciousness long enough to register the sounds of sirens. Figuring he’s imagining it, he lets his eyes drift closed again, and when he next opens them (seconds later? Minutes?) he’s just in time to see the door falling inwards, the impact of it against the floor not as loud as he anticipated. 

Blurry grey figures stream through, one of them darker than the rest and headed straight for him. Lethargic and confused, Bucky’s more than okay with slipping under again – until the figure addresses him, and he hears – thinks he hears – a voice telling him something important, and a single word sounds less-muffled than the rest. Her name is on his lips, but there’s no breath to be spared for speech anymore, and he’s used up his final energy reserves. There’s a pressure at his back, the unclear world tilts upwards, and darkness entombs him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking of exploring this a little more... do I/don't I? :S


End file.
